


Words

by latin_cat



Category: Sharpe - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-10
Updated: 2012-05-10
Packaged: 2017-11-05 03:15:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/latin_cat/pseuds/latin_cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A confrontation on the mirador. Set during <i>Sharpe's Sword</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words

**Salamanca - June, 1812**

 

At the sound of the footman’s distant protests La Marquesa turned and pointed to the open screen door in the lattice of the _mirador_.  
  
“Through there!” she snapped. “Quickly!”  
  
Sharpe, not questioning the imperious tone, slipped through the door and shut it behind him, and not before time. Barely half a minute later, peering through the curling plants, Sharpe saw Wellington storm onto the secret balcony, his face grim, his eyes cold and hard. He stopped a few paces from La Marquesa and gave a curt bow of his head.  
  
“Madam.”  
  
What was the General doing here, and at this hour? But almost immediatley Sharpe answered his own question, and it was with some horror that he realised that Wellington must be here on some confidential business with El Mirador, considering that he was unaccompanied and that his attitude was not the usual fawning one he displayed when the Marquesa was out and about in the town. Sharpe only prayed that Helena would not let him overhear something that he should not.  
  
“Why, Arthur, what a surprise!” La Marquesa had assumed her public façade of light high spirits. “You should have told me you were coming; I could have laid on a supper for you.”  
  
“The supper can wait,” Wellington said gruffly. There was no hint of good humour in his demeanour. “I have something to ask of you.”  
  
La Marquesa arched her perfectly-shaped eyebrows delicately, disappointed that her friendly advancement had been brushed aside.  
  
“And what might that be?”  
  
“You know to what I am referring.”  
  
She stayed silent, mocking him with her smile. He sighed, removing his hat and running his fingers impatiently through his close-cropped hair. He lifted his gaze back to her; she was waiting for him to speak.  
  
“Leave Sharpe alone.”  
  
She laughed.  
  
“Sharpe! What do you take me for, Arthur?”  
  
Sharpe could not believe his ears. How did he know? How _could_ he know?  
  
“Do not try to pretend with me, Helena,” Wellington said, his expression darkening. “I know that you have been taking advantage of Sharpe; I know it for a fact.”  
  
At this La Marquesa dropped all pretence of pleasantness, her countenance turning cold enough to rival his.  
  
“To listen to you anyone would imagine he were an innocent milkmaid.”  
  
“Though oddly enough I do not hear you attempting to deny it.”  
  
“Why should I? You seem very certain in your accusations, Arthur.”  
  
“I happen to know that he has been to see you several times – nine to be exact.”  
  
If the Marquesa’s expression could have been considered black before it now seemed murderous.  
  
“You have been spying on me!”  
  
“Not I, my dear,” Wellington said coolly, taking a pace towards the lattice and Sharpe instinctively took a step back; though he needn’t have worried, as the General had merely stepped forward to examine the telescope with the iron tripod. “Major Hogan expressed his concern at the captain’s nocturnal disappearances, so in order to ease his mind I had Sharpe followed.”  
  
“And I thought you were a gentleman.”  
  
Wellington ran a slender finger along the smooth outer casing of the telescope, then turned to face La Marquesa, a mocking smile quite like the one she had given him curling at his lips.  
  
“Just as well that I never thought for a second you were a lady,” he said silkily.  
  
What happened next took both Sharpe and Wellington by surprise. There was a blur as one perfect white hand moved, followed barely a second later by the resounding slap as the Marquesa’s palm connected with the General’s face. It was a swift, smart blow that caught him squarely on the cheek, making him step back, his hand automatically coming to where he had been hit.  
  
“Why are you so concerned with Sharpe?” she demanded, her eyes blazing. “Why? What is he to you?”  
  
“Nothing.” Wellington’s face was impassive, having recovered his composure now the momentary shock had worn off, although the skin where her hand had struck was a stinging red. Sharpe’s mouth hung open. She had hit him! She had hit the General! He could not decide what it was that shocked him the most; the fact that his lover was being such a prig to this woman, or that this woman had dared to hit his lover.  
  
“Oh come now, Arthur,” The Marquesa gave a harsh laugh. “If he is nothing, why so protective? Captain Sharpe can look after himself.”  
  
“You and I know that to be a lie,” Wellington said sharply. “Don’t involve him in your games, Helena, he doesn’t understand the rules - especially where women are concerned.”  
  
“And you do?”  
  
“Well enough,” The General arched an eyebrow. “As you should well recall.”  
  
The Marquesa turned away from him angrily, striding three paces across the balcony. Sharpe could see her shoulders stiffen as she stood there, her back straightening in silent fury. A strange hush settled over the _mirador_ as both Sharpe and Wellington stood watching her, waiting to see what she would do next. Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, she turned around again. She was smiling – a cold, calculating smile – her eyes bright with unconcealed amusement.  
  
“You are a riddle, Arthur Wellesley,” Her words were soft, as if she were musing over them as they left her mouth. “A riddle in the shape of a man, and you fascinate me. You are surrounded by countless aides and officials eager to do your bidding, yet you act alone." She moved back towards him, the hem of her white dress whispering across the tiles. “You are brilliant, but you rarely choose to crow like the others of your rank do. You affect disinterest in Sharpe, yet you show concern for his welfare. You pretend to be light of heart; that no cares can touch you, yet you hide your true smiles away as if they were something to be ashamed of.”  
  
She now stood barely inches from him – any closer and her body would have been pressed against his – and she stroked one delicate finger along his smooth jaw, caressing where only minutes before she had struck.  
  
“We are not so different, you and I; we both have our public and private faces. There is so much going on inside your head, but you let no one into your thoughts or your feelings. Why don’t you let me in, Arthur? Let me know what goes on inside that head and heart of yours.”  
  
Wellington’s blue eyes stared down at her coldly. He did not move away from, nor lean into the caress.  
  
“There has only ever been one person allowed inside my head,” he said quietly. “And that person is me.”  
  
“And what about your heart?”  
  
“Only two; and you are not one of them, madam.”  
  
“Is that a challenge, Arthur?” she asked softly.  
  
“Call it what you will,” he said, the coldness returning to his voice. “And do what you will to me; but I still stand by what I say, and I say to leave Sharpe alone.”  
  
She glared at him, his refusal to be goaded irritating her.  
  
“And what if I choose not to?” she asked brusquely. “What if I am too attached to my ‘bit of rough’, as you English would call him. What will you do then? Arrest me? Execute me? You know you cannot.” Her eyes glinted dangerously. “Tell me what you will do, Arthur.”  
  
Wellington remained resolutely silent, returning her spiteful glare with his own. Sharpe could sense the loathing between the two, the pure hatred and could not help but wonder how it had come about. What were they playing at?  
  
“Have you ever killed, Arthur?”  
  
The same question she had asked him, the same tactic of abrupt interrogation she had used to throw him off guard; yet it did not seem to be working on the General. Wellington continued to glare at her. It was a game of words, Sharpe realised; a duel between the two to see who could seize the upper hand, though to him it seemed they could only reach a stalemate. In this secret war the weapons were words, ink and paper, and these two were masters of their art.  
  
“Yes,” Wellington said eventually.  
  
“I mean by your own hand, by your own will. Have you ever killed as Sharpe has killed?”  
  
“No. No one can kill like Sharpe can kill. Not even Leroux.”  
  
Somehow Sharpe knew that Wellington was thinking of Assaye, and he could not blame him – even he still did not fully believe what he had done that day under the Indian sun, amidst the noise, chaos and dust of battle.  
  
“Do you enjoy killing?” Still she pressed him.  
  
“You know I don’t.”  
  
“Yet you send hundreds of men to their deaths time after time. Why?”  
  
“Because it’s my duty.”  
  
“To stain your hands with blood?”  
  
“To win this war.”  
  
“And even if it means the death of all those men; of Sharpe?”  
  
There was a silence.  
  
Wellington bowed his head.  
  
“Good day, madam.”  
  
And left.  
  
Once he was certain the General had gone Sharpe emerged from his hiding place, somewhat stunned and wondering what in the world had just occurred. At the sound of the lattice door opening La Marquesa turned, her golden hair whipping around her shoulders as she threw herself into his arms.  
  
“Thank Heaven that awful man is gone!” she exclaimed. “I do not think I could have stood having him here for another minute!”  
  
Sharpe clasped her to his chest, his face buried in her soft tresses, inhaling the scent of her perfume and deeply disturbed. Arthur had known he was seeing La Marquesa, and he had come to tell her to stay away from him. Usually Wellington was not the jealous kind; it was understood between them, unspoken, that either of them could have as many women as they wanted so long as they stayed true to each other… Either the General was breaking the habit of a lifetime, or he was genuinely concerned for his lover. He pulled away from Helena slightly, looking down at her pale face.  
  
“What was all that about?” he queried.  
  
She looked up at him, her eyes weary and she shook her lovely head.  
  
“Nothing; he is always like that with me. He has never liked me.”  
  
“Yet you work for him?”  
  
“I put up with him, as he puts up with me.” She smiled, a wry smile, and smoothed his jacket slightly. “It is also awkward for the both of us, as I was foolish enough to let him into my bed.”  
  
She sighed at Sharpe’s look of surprise.  
  
“I know, I am not in the habit of letting just any man into my bed – but it was the first time I had met him, and he is not just any man. I was curious to know more about him, and he about me.” She sighed again. “We both acknowledge now that it was a mistake… but what I want to know is why he is so concerned with you.”  
  
Her sudden question caught Sharpe off guard. He had been wondering why Arthur had not told him any of this before, why he had not chosen to take him into his confidence; but then again Sharpe had not asked, and Wellington was not one to readily volunteer information about himself. Much like Sharpe. He blinked at her, thinking of a reply.  
  
“I saved his life.”  
  
“I know that,” she said harshly. “He told me, and he said that he considered the debt long repaid. I was under the impression that he did not like you.”  
  
“He don’t.” He knew that she wanted more, though, so he cleared his throat awkwardly. “I ‘spose in a way we look out for each other; I watch his back and he watches mine. It works well for both of us – least at the moment it does.”  
  
He lapsed into silence for a moment, then sighed heavily.  
  
“Did you have to hit him?”  
  
“Of course I did – you heard what an absolute bore he was being! A lady could hardly do less.”  
  
“’Spose,” Sharpe mumbled. “But I don’t know why he thought he needed to warn you off me.”  
  
“He probably thinks that you don’t understand intelligence work, that you’ll end up a casualty of Leroux perhaps?” She shrugged her slender shoulders. “Who knows what he is thinking. Nobody ever knows what he is thinking for sure; which I suppose could be considered a good thing,” She frowned. “Sometimes.”  
  
She then stepped away from Sharpe, moved halfway across the _mirador_ before turning suddenly, smiling back at him.  
  
“But we shan’t let him worry us anymore. I know that you will protect me, and that you will not fail to capture Leroux. You are a man who always gets what he wants, and if you want Leroux dead, then he shall die and I shall be safe. But until that time I will have you by my side.”  
  
And Sharpe, as ever, was happy to do as he was told.


End file.
